


Meet Me in the Moonlight

by roseclipping



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Sex Work, Stripping, alex gotta pay those student loans somehow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 00:18:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11001999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseclipping/pseuds/roseclipping
Summary: It was unmistakable. Unmistakable, yet it had to be a mistake, because there was no possible way that this dancer who had so captivated Thomas’ attention was him.But it was. There was no denying it. Thomas looked again, and the impossible became reality.~When Thomas is dragged to a too-loud, too-flashy strip club, he certainly doesn't expect to find Alexander Hamilton there.Especiallynot onstage.





	Meet Me in the Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> this took,, WAY too long to write. seriously. i wrote my last fic in a week and this took nearly a month. (its here now though, and thats whats important.)
> 
> anyways, i hope you enjoy!!

Of all the ways Thomas Jefferson would have liked to be woken up, being half-suffocated by his roommate is pretty low on the list.

The first thing he registered upon waking was the considerable weight on his chest– no, entire  _ body _ – followed by the faded yet distinct smell of alcohol. Thomas peeled his eyes open to find a disheveled Lafayette on top of him, asleep and very much shirtless. After blinking a few times to get the sleep out of his eyes, Thomas also noticed that most of Lafayette’s hair, face, and torso was covered in glitter. 

Thomas groaned.  _ Wonderful.  _ Rooming with the French student had its perks– Laf was an excellent chef, let Thomas borrow from his particularly extravagant wardrobe, provided free French practice all hours of the day– but this was decidedly not one of them. He had recently discovered the wonder that was ‘sleazy American strip clubs’ as well as the fact that his accent alone was pretty much guaranteed to get him a lay, and had been going out and returning to their apartment in this state constantly for the past three weeks.

“Gil,” Thomas grunted, attempting to wriggle out from underneath him. “I’m dyin’. Get off me.” 

Laf gave a resolute snore in response.

Try as he might, it was no use. Lafayette was a dead weight. He was effectively trapped under a mass of limbs and glitter. 

A few more feeble attempts to push the sleeping man off of him yielded the same results– Laf was out cold and immovable. Just as Thomas was about to resign himself to being crushed for who knows how long, Lafayette finally began to stir. 

_ “Thomas?”  _ Laf muttered groggily, assaulting Thomas with breath that reeked of at least six different kinds of alcohol.  _ “Why are you in my bed?”  _

“English, Laf.” Thomas had a decent grasp on French– which had improved considerably upon meeting Laf– but it was too damn early to be speaking in tongues. Besides; hungover, sleep-slurred French was a bit harder to understand than what he was accustomed to. 

Lafayette blinked a couple times, regaining his bearings, and rolled off of Thomas. (Most of the glitter stayed, though. That would be a bitch to get off later.)

“What time is it?” Laf said, stretching his arms and back. Thomas heard several  _ pops _ and tried not to wince. 

He glanced at the alarm clock beside his bed. “Almost eight. What happened to you?”

Laf squinted, as if confused as to what Thomas was asking, before his face broke out into an expression of satisfaction and dopey glee. “Oh, mon ami, you will not  _ believe  _ the night I had…”

Thomas half-listened as Laf recounted a somewhat ridiculous tale involving lots of clubs, lots of drinks, and  _ lots  _ of glitter. There was a boy involved somehow, and a girl, and were the cops called at some point? Thomas wasn’t sure, Laf kept switching between languages and apparently didn’t care much for telling stories in chronological order. Still, he nodded and laughed and said  _ wow  _ at all the right moments, which seemed to satisfy Lafayette. 

By the time they both had showered, changed, and tried futilely to clean as much glitter from Thomas’ bed as possible, the clock read 9:36, meaning Thomas had to leave  _ right now _ and make a mad dash to campus unless he wanted to be late to his first class of the day.

At 9:59 exactly, Thomas sauntered into the room and took his seat, an expression of bored displeasure painted on his face. Comparative Politics, Professor Washington. Honestly, the class wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the irksome little runt seated two rows in front of him, and the blatant favoritism Washington played for him and made next to no effort to hide. 

_ Alexander Hamilton.  _ Loud, brash, ready to pick a fight with anyone– ‘anyone’ usually meaning Thomas, for whatever goddamned reason. Ever since what seemed like the minute they met, Hamilton had had some personal vendetta against him. If ever there was so much as a sliver of an opportunity to attack Thomas for his beliefs, or his mannerisms, or even his  _ clothes, _ Hamilton jumped on it. 

(Thomas would be lying if he said he didn’t retaliate with just as much fire– it was just too easy. Hamilton was a loose cannon if he ever saw one, and the thrill of riling him up was too good to pass up, high road be damned.)

The class was slow, but manageable. Hamilton seemed more subdued than usual; the constant interruptions, quips, and responses-turned-rants were noticeably missing from the day’s lecture. It struck Thomas as odd, but he dismissed the thought. Doesn’t do good to dwell on the thoughts of a madman.

“You were awfully quiet today, Hamilton,” Thomas remarked, the snide comment slipping past his tongue the second he came within earshot of the other man as they exited the room. He couldn’t help it. Doesn’t do good to dwell on the thoughts of a madman, but it couldn’t hurt to  _ ask, _ right? “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” 

Hamilton whirled around to face him with an indignant expression, eyes narrowed and glowering. “Like you’d know anything about pussies near mouths.” 

Thomas wrinkled his nose at the crude remark. “That was weak, Hamilton. And  _ gross. _ Try harder.” 

“Like  _ you’d _ know anything about–” Hamilton faltered and Thomas was relieved, because he had a sneaking suspicion of where his retort was headed, and it undoubtedly involved the word ‘hard.’ Thomas spared a thought to curse the entirety of the English language, because  _ come on. _

“Do you have  _ glitter _ in your hair?” Thomas snapped out of his newfound hatred for double entendres by Hamilton’s semi-teasing, semi-incredulous tone. “You  _ do. _ That’s definitely glitter. You have  _ glitter.  _ In your  _ hair.” _

_ I’m gonna murder Laf,  _ Thomas thought as his hand flew to his hair, cursing loudly when he pulled back to find his fingers annoyingly sparkly. “My fucking roommate– fucking  _ fell asleep on me–”  _ He felt his face burn embarrassingly red– from irritation more than humiliation, though it wasn’t like Hamilton could tell the difference. 

“Fell asleep on you, did he?” Hamilton crowed, and Thomas felt the sudden urge to slap the ridiculously smug smirk off his face. 

“I don’t have to fucking–  _ explain myself to you,” _ Thomas muttered angrily, more to himself than to Hamilton, and stalked off in the opposite direction without another word, ignoring the obnoxious cackling that rang out from behind him. 

He was going to  _ kill  _ Lafayette.

–––

Unfortunately, Thomas’ plans to murder a certain frenchman did not plan out as he would’ve liked, partly because he didn’t have it in him to kill a spider, much less a human, and partly because Laf didn’t return to their apartment until 11:30 and by then, Thomas was curled on the couch with a book and a cup of tea– a relaxing pre-bed ritual, and he was in no mood for homicide.

Didn’t stop him from being pissed, though.

“Gilbert du  _ Motier,”  _ Thomas exclaimed rather loudly through grit teeth the moment the door clicked shut. Laf looked up with wide eyes at Thomas’ confrontational tone, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a deer in the headlights. 

“Yes?” Laf said all too innocently, like he didn’t know the reason for Thomas’ accusatory tone. (Which, technically, he didn’t, but that was besides the point.)

“Your fucking  _ body glitter _ got all in my hair. And… people noticed.” He stumbled over the end of his statement, painfully aware that ‘people noticed’ is quite an underwhelming cause of grief, but what else could he say?  _ “Hamilton made fun of me?” _ Absolutely not. 

Laf blinked. “So?”

Thomas scoffed. “What do you mean,  _ so?” _

“So, what do you want me to do about it? You like people noticing you, no?”

“Yes, but–” Thomas sputtered, flailing his hands indignantly. Was Laf  _ trying  _ to be so insufferable? He had to be. This had to be a joke. “Just… tell me how to get it out!”

Lafayette rolled his eyes and strode across the threshold to meet Thomas in the living room, unzipping his jacket with one swift movement and tossing it to the floor before collapsing into a chair. “You are so self conscious, mon ami. There is no problem with glitter, I think. It makes you look nicer.”

_ “Laf–” _

“Fine, fine.” Laf held up his hands. “Olive oil. Put it in, let it set, rinse. Then  _ voila.  _ Good as new.” 

“And you couldn’t tell me this  _ before  _ I left for class?”

Laf just shrugged. “You did not ask.”

Thomas weighed the pros and cons of getting out of bed and fumbling with a bottle of olive oil for about three seconds before deciding no, it’s not worth it, that can wait for tomorrow. 

“I don’t understand your fascination with clubs. Do they not have those in France?” He asked instead, bringing his tea up to his lips and deflating a little upon realizing it had gone cold. 

Lafayette chuckled from his bed. “Of course they do, but they are all  _ French  _ clubs. These are  _ American  _ clubs.”

“Your utter lack of logic continues to defy me."

Laf crossed his arms and pouted, fixing Thomas with an affronted expression. “You mock, mon ami, yet you do not  _ understand.” _ A pause, and Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly Laf was taken over with a certain  _ look,  _ bright-eyed and inspired. Thomas knew that look well; it was one that, to Laf, meant “I have a great idea” which almost always translated to Thomas as a very,  _ very  _ bad idea.

As a surprise to no one, Laf exclaimed with delight, “I have an idea!”

Thomas started to groan, but before the sound could even come out of his mouth Laf continued. 

“Next time I go out, you come with me! Yes, it is perfect. You will love it, I am sure.” 

So, worse than whatever Thomas had been expecting, not that he was even sure what that was. At least Laf hadn’t suggested something illegal, again. 

“Gil, that’s not really my scene–” Thomas started to protest, but was interrupted by a scoff and a dismissive wave of the hand. 

“Yes, yes, you say this. And I am hearing you. But you do not know until you  _ try–”  _

“I have tried!” Thomas interrupted, a little miffed by the implication. “You think I’ve never been to a club before?” 

“You said yourself, it’s not your  _ scene…”  _ He drew out the syllable on the last word in a cruel mimicry of Thomas’ cadence, and in that moment he was one hundred percent certain Laf knew  _ exactly  _ what he was doing. 

_ I need better friends, _ Thomas thought briefly. “I’m gonna pass.” 

“Non, you must!” Laf exclaimed, pouting slightly. “Please? Just one time? It will be so fun, I promise.” He was staring imploringly at Thomas now, puppy-dog eyes in full force. 

He could refuse again, which would only cause Lafayette to beg harder. If there was one thing Thomas had learned about his roommate, it was that he was profoundly stubborn, and once he set his mind to something he would not stop until he got it.

So really, arguing past this would be pointless. Laf would always win, eventually. 

Thomas heaved a resigned sigh. “Fine. One time. But you’re paying for my drinks.” 

Lafayette whooped, he actually  _ whooped _ and pumped a fist in the air with a smug, satisfied grin. “It is settled then. Tomorrow night, yes? It is a Saturday, so we can stay out as long as we want.”

As Thomas sank back into his pillows, he tried not to think about what he had just gotten himself into. It wouldn’t be so bad. Clubs weren’t really his thing, not anymore, but he was a big boy. He could handle it. Besides, this way he could keep an eye on Laf and make sure he didn’t get into anything too crazy. 

This would be fine.

–––

This was, without a doubt,  _ not  _ fine. 

Maybe he should’ve backed out the minute Laf coaxed him into the painted-on black jeans that were so tight he was legitimately concerned about the blood flow to his legs. Maybe he should’ve backed out when Laf himself strutted out of the bathroom wearing a mesh shirt–  _ mesh!–  _ revealing two little glints of silver on either pectoral that Thomas was  _ sure  _ weren’t there the night before when Laf had taken his shirt off. Either he had had them for a while but only put them in for  _ special occasions,  _ or at some point in the span of twenty four hours had honest-to-God gone out and gotten his nipples pierced. Both options were entirely plausible, a thought that made Thomas’ head hurt, and so he stopped thinking about it right then and there.

And maybe he should’ve backed out when he emerged from their cab to come face to face with a neon sign displaying  _ ‘THE GLITTER BOMB’  _ in garish pink letters, but he didn’t, and instead let Lafayette lead him inside. 

Which led him to his current position, trapped in a sea of sweaty, dancing bodies with Laf nowhere in sight, all senses assaulted by a mind-numbing mix of flashing lights and music so loud he could practically feel his skull vibrating. The club was aptly named; so many people were covered in shimmering body glitter that it was constantly floating in the air– he was certain he’d have to use Laf’s olive oil trick after this, whether he wanted to or not. What with the amount of strangers bodies shoving past him and grinding against him, he had to be covered in the stuff by now.  _ Damn it. _

He tried to let go and enjoy himself, he really did. And maybe he would’ve, were this a year or two ago, when he was fresh out of high school and had only just begun to fully appreciate the beauty that was the male physique, drawing him to dive headfirst into a wonderful world of nail polish and parties and one night stands and trying (failing) to put blue and purple streaks into his hair. That fire faded by the time his freshman year had come to a close, instead opting for chasing a respectable career in politics, focusing his energy on his books and studies and outward appearance, grooming himself to be the perfect politician-slash-socialite like so many in his family before him. If ever the urge struck him to do something wild, he’d wear a suit to class. Simple as that.

Needless to say, this whole ‘get wasted at a strip club’ thing wasn’t really calling for him. 

Unfortunately, he couldn’t just leave, because Laf was still here and deserting his friend seemed kind of shitty– even though that’s pretty much what Laf did the second they got here, but that’s besides the point. So he settled for clawing his way through the mass of people and sliding into the nearest booth, nursing a Manhattan and trying to stay afloat amidst the sea of people. He let his eyes wander, scanning the crowd for any sign of Laf but eventually settling into a night of people-watching until Laf found him. He didn’t want to think about how long that would take. 

There were a number of dancers twirling around in various states of undress, on raised platforms with steel metal poles shooting up from the center dotted around the room. Thomas’ eyes landed on the closest one in particular, a svelte body moving his hips enticingly to the music. His eyes traveled up two slender calves which turned into perfectly toned thighs and an ass covered by nothing more than a  _ very  _ tight pair of red briefs– Thomas blinked a few times to compose himself, though he’d never admit to it– the dancer turned, and Thomas was suddenly met with a great view of a slender, tanned torso with  _ just  _ the right amount of muscle definition, sleek and lithe. 

His gaze flicked up, just a fraction, to see the face that matched this beautiful body. Thomas was met with a thin face, cut cheekbones and feather-soft dark hair, and he enjoyed himself for a solid nanosecond before reality cut in and all the air was stolen from his lungs. 

It was unmistakable. Unmistakable, yet it  _ had  _ to be a mistake, because there was no  _ possible way _ that this dancer who had so captivated Thomas’ attention was  _ him. _

But it was. There was no denying it. Thomas looked again, and the impossible became reality. 

_ Hamilton.  _

Alexander Hamilton was  _ there, _ on the stage, with his head thrown back and lips slightly parted, and people were tossing crinkled dollar bills at his feet and tucking them into the waistband of his briefs, and Thomas’ head was absolutely spinning. 

He should leave. He should leave, right now, and let Laf figure out how to get home alone, because Alexander Hamilton was stripping and this felt like some cruel invasion of privacy and he needed to leave, because what if Hamilton saw him?

_ So what if he sees you?  _ A niggling, unbidden voice whispered in the back of his head.  _ This is a public place, after all. You’ve got as much a right here as everyone else.  _

A part of him screamed  _ no, he didn’t,  _ because this wasn’t his scene, he was a trespasser on foreign grounds. This wasn’t his territory, he didn’t belong here, where was Laf, he needed to go–

And yet, his body stayed in the same place (if not sunk a little further down in his seat) and his eyes stayed glued to Hamilton, dancing with a fluidity he hadn’t believed to be possible, especially not for  _ Hamilton _ of all people. He didn’t look like most male strippers– at least, not like what Thomas had come to associate male strippers with. Hamilton was fit, but he wasn’t particularly buff or muscular, instead composed of soft edges and long, graceful lines. It was catlike, and he reminded Thomas of a tiger, or perhaps a lion in the way he held himself.

Maybe it was for that reason why he stayed. Stayed until Hamilton finished his set, stayed to see glimpses of various lap dances on strangers, and stayed until Hamilton and another man disappeared into what Thomas could only assume to be the champagne room. 

That was where Laf found him soon after, tucked into the back of a booth, still somewhat shell-shocked at the events that had just unfolded. The next thirty minutes passed by in a blur; hailing a taxi, paying the driver, stumbling back into the apartment. 

Thomas tried to sleep, but his mind was more awake than ever, trying to piece together the impossible puzzle that was  _ Hamilton, Hamilton, Hamilton. _

When sleep finally came, loud music and dancing and bodies moving like tigers found him in his dreams.

–––

Morning came, and Thomas woke before Laf, which was unsurprising. They exchanged few words on the way back to the apartment, and that was mostly because Laf had gotten himself completely shitfaced (and covered in glitter, again. Thomas was beginning to accept this as his new perpetual state of being.) 

Thomas hadn’t drunk much, but he knew Laf would have one hell of a hangover to work off, so he decided against waking him before leaving. It was Sunday, it was ten in the morning, which meant he had about two hours to get brunch at that little coffee shop on Clermont before the church crowd poured in, and he would be damned if he had to wait behind a crowd of little old ladies to get his croissant. And so without a word, he changed into acceptable outerwear, grabbed a handful of cash from the nightstand beside his bed, and was off. 

Twenty minutes later found Thomas nestled in the back of the quaint little café, book in one hand and perfectly buttered croissant in the other, lightly toasted with a cup of coffee. It was a wonderful way to start a completely  _ normal _ day, and he had made a point to very carefully not think about anything remotely related to strip clubs, dancing, or a certain, irritating little–

“Roommate fell asleep on you again?” The voice cracked like a shot in the dark, startling Thomas almost to the point of dropping his croissant into his drink.

He whipped around and promptly cursed the very day he was born when he came face to face with Alexander  _ fucking  _ Hamilton. 

_ Did you just appear out of nowhere? Are you just going to haunt me until the day I die? Am I insane?  _ Words ran through Thomas’ mind but his mouth remained stoutly slack-jawed, brain too fuzzy with shock to produce anything beyond “Wha..?”

Images of the night before swam to the forefront of his mind, and he suddenly found it very difficult to look Hamilton in the eyes.  _ What if he saw me, what if he’s confronting me, oh God, I’m screwed… _

Hamilton raised an eyebrow and did a quick once-over of Thomas. “Glitter.” 

Thomas blinked, trying to screw his head back on just enough to form a coherent sentence. “I– what– what are you doing here?”

“Getting coffee. Like literally every other person here. What kind of question is that?” 

“I– I don’t–”

Hamilton cocked his head. “The hell’s wrong with you? Cat got your tongue?” 

_ Like you’d know anything about pussies near mouths, _ Thomas thought hazily, thinking back to a very similar conversation only days prior, only the roles had been reversed. Although, in that scenario, Hamilton was still perfectly capable of speech, which was pretty much the exact opposite of Thomas’ current predicament. 

That, and Hamilton hadn’t seen Thomas working the pole like a god the night before. 

“Y–you shouldn’t be here,” Thomas said weakly, forcing his mouth to work again. “This is  _ my  _ place.” He came here every Sunday,  _ every Sunday, _ and not once has he seen that aggravating little face here, so how dare Hamilton just strut in like he had the right to be in this very much public establishment with absolutely  _ no _ respect for Thomas’ boundaries, how  _ dare he– _

“Do I see your name anywhere?” Hamilton crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting all… weird and shit.” 

Thomas wanted to scream. At what, he wasn’t sure, but it took everything in him not to start shrieking, right here, right now, in the middle of the coffee shop. 

Instead, what came out was more of a pitiful mutter. “Just– go  _ away,  _ Hamilton.” 

Hamilton narrowed his eyes, and for one terrifying second his gaze fixed on a spot just underneath Thomas’ jaw where he knew a particularly visible splotch of glitter sat before darting back up, and Thomas was sure he had figured it out.  _ I saw you strip. I saw you next-to-naked. I literally cannot look at you without immediately picturing you next-to-naked.  _

Thankfully, Hamilton said nothing, instead turned on his heel and left with one more signature eye roll. Thomas’ gaze lingered for a split second on his ass as he walked away, just long enough for the thought of  _ I know what that looks like without jeans _ to worm its way into his head before wrenching his eyes away, hot embarrassment flushing his face a deep red. 

Thomas looked back down at his plate; the coffee had gone cold.  _ Wonderful. _

It was just as well, really. He didn’t think he’d be able to set foot in this place again, not after  _ that. _

–––

Having class with Hamilton turned out to be exactly what Thomas had expected: an absolute nightmare. They only had three classes together per week, but each one felt like a new brand of torture. The sad part was, Hamilton didn’t ever do anything out of the ordinary, but every snide comment or underhanded remark thrown Thomas’ way sent his brain into a tailspin before he could even begin to formulate a response. How was he supposed to fight with Hamilton if he couldn’t even  _ look _ at the man without picturing him in nothing but red briefs? The thought was distracting, to say the least.

(Thomas absolutely refused to let his thoughts stray any further than _distracting_ when it came to picturing Hamilton in his underthings.)  

By the time the week came to a close, Thomas was sure he had flushed any thoughts of Hamilton out of his system. Burying himself in schoolwork– and perhaps a friendly handjob or two from Laf– had taken care of that one. Definitely.

So then why was it that, come Saturday night, he stood at the door, jacket in one hand and wallet in the other, staring down at the door knob while a battle of  _ should  _ and  _ shouldn’t  _ raged on in his conscience? 

_ I shouldn’t. I most definitely, completely, one hundred percent should not. _

_ But why not? What do you have to lose? Laf is out anyways, nobody needs to know. _

_This is a terrible idea. He’ll see me._  

_ Not if you’re careful.  _

Why was his hand on the door? Why was he even  _ considering _ this in the first place? Why did he even want to see Hamilton again so badly?

Thomas knew the answer, clear as day. Calling up the memory, seeing Hamilton dancing on that stage… it was mesmerizing. Breathtaking. 

And Thomas needed another hit. 

But still, it wasn’t worth it. Shoving himself right back into a pit of sweat and glitter and mind-splitting EDM music, just to see one stripper? He didn’t even know if Hamilton was dancing now– did strippers stick to regular schedules? 

He had pride, at one point. He must have. Where did that run off to?

The thought nagged at him, but was pushed down as he turned the handle and opened the door. By the time Thomas got to the club, it was completely smothered. 

A quick scan of the crowded club, pushing his way through the ocean of people on the dance floor to find the same spot he had been in a week prior, and Thomas found Hamilton, on the same stage as last time. This time was a little different, though; he appeared to be at the beginning of the set, if the fact that he was fully clothed was anything to go by. 

Thomas’ breath hitched. When he’d seen this before, everything was already off and all he saw was Hamilton grinding and twirling around the pole, occasionally leaning over to pluck bills from hands in the masses. It was one thing to see Hamilton dance in nothing but underwear. It was going to be an entirely different experience to actively watch him _ strip.  _

The music changed, and Thomas did what any sensible person would do: sit back and enjoy the show. 

His movements were slow at first, just teasing little hip gyrations and running flat palms along the side of his frame, across his chest, through his hair and down his neck. Then he sped up, and Thomas’ felt his heart rate accelerate to match the change in rhythm as Hamilton undid the long, silky black tie from his neck and–  _ oh god–  _ bit down and slid the length of it through his teeth. 

The shirt came next, nimble fingers popping open button after button until it hung loose from his shoulders, and at this Hamilton sunk to his knees at the edge of the stage. He threw his head back, eyes closed, and rolled his hips up into the air, one hand behind him for support and the other drawing ever so slowly down his torso, forcing Thomas’ eyes to follow it down the line until the hand came to a stop right over his crotch, before Hamilton snapped it back up to drag those long fingers through his hair. 

Hamilton was on his feet now, and the impressively tight jeans were coming off– Thomas had to applaud him on how he somehow managed to make the act of peeling off such constricting clothing still so  _ sensual.  _ If it were Thomas, he’d surely be on the floor cursing and about three seconds to taking a pair of scissors to his legs and cutting himself out– not exactly the spitting image of ‘sexy.’ 

It was a good thing Thomas was sitting a safe distance from Hamilton, because when he refocused after his brief stray of thoughts he may or may not have audibly gasped at the sight before him. 

_ A thong. He’s in a fucking thong.  _ A skimpy black thing that left absolutely  _ nothing  _ to the imagination, instead showed off every single inch of skin save his dick itself (which, though covered by a layer of fabric, Thomas could still make a  _ very  _ clear mental image of if he thought about it. Which he wasn’t. Not at all.) 

His eyes scanned the crowd below him, darting here and there with a subtle sort of purpose, almost like he was searching for someone. A friend? A lover? A regular? Someone he wanted to impress?

Whoever it is, must be damn impressed. 

Thomas certainly was. 

The show ended, and Thomas went home, but it wasn’t the last time he snuck out to see Hamilton perform. Far from it. He developed a routine; attend class as usual; keep his eyes off of Hamilton, unless provoked; give Laf some bullshit excuse like ‘I have work in the library’ or ‘I’m going out with friends’ if he was in the apartment (which, on Saturday nights, was almost never) and mosey into the club with his head down to watch Hamilton dance. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of getting a lapdance, but the thought was dismissed as soon as it appeared. Reveal himself to Hamilton?  _ Willingly?  _ No amount of money, or lapdances, could persuade him to do that. 

And the shock of seeing Hamilton in class had faded within the first few days; as long as he didn’t look too hard at him and kept to the other side of the room, Thomas regained enough control as to not start blushing madly whenever he caught his gaze. Laf’s olive oil trick worked like a charm, too; by the third week he had mastered the art of rendering himself completely glitter-free in a matter of minutes. It was a perfect system. Absolutely perfect. No one knew, and he was never caught. 

(Until, of course, he was.)

The song wasn’t one he recognized, but he was barely paying attention to the beat, anyways. All eyes were on Alexander, beautiful and thrilling and the very definition of  _ sex appeal.  _ Thomas had long since stopped trying to block those thoughts from his head– thinking of him as ‘beautiful’ and ‘stunning’ and ‘mesmerizing’ had felt wrong at one point, like he was fraternizing with the enemy, but after he had begun to view the person on stage as  _ Alexander _ instead of  _ Hamilton,  _ pretty much all other walls had begun to disintegrate. This wasn’t Hamilton; no, Hamilton was ratty hoodies and a firecracker mouth and an ever-present bitchface. This was  _ Alexander,  _ captivating and alluring with limbs moving gracefully like a well-oiled machine. 

It still felt a bit like an invasion of privacy, but Thomas didn’t care. Alexander was a stripper, people were going to watch. 

He was just another face in the masses. 

Another face in the masses, yet not  _ faceless,  _ a painful truth which had not been fully realized until halfway through the set, when suddenly a hand clapped down on his shoulder and spun him around, breaking him from whatever enchantment seemed to be cast on him without fail every Saturday. 

_ “Thomas?”  _

Facing him, eyes wide and hand still on Thomas’ shoulder, stood Lafayette. Another kid stood a couple steps behind him, brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes darted from Laf to Thomas, then back to Laf. He looked vaguely familiar; curly hair, thin frame, a healthy smattering of freckles, but Thomas couldn’t put a name to the face. Someone he’d seen around campus here and there, most likely. 

He would have to think more on it a later time, though, because all his thoughts became preoccupied with the instantly pressing matter at hand–  _ he’d been caught.  _ Red warning flags shot up in his vision, and a sudden urge to bolt out of the club and maybe leave the country surged up in him, but he pushed it down. Barely.

“Laf… what are you–” Thomas stuttered, heart racing at what was surely an unhealthy rate for humans. A hummingbird, perhaps, would be a more accurate comparison. 

“What am  _ I  _ doing? What are  _ you  _ doing here?” Laf cut him off, crossed his arms. “I thought you said… I thought you said you did not like this!”

Thomas bit his lip, trying to come up with an adequate excuse. “I just… I thought I would– why do you care?” His eyes darted to Alex, still onstage.

The gesture was not lost on Lafayette. His eyes followed the path to where Thomas had glanced, to where Alexander had brought a guy up onstage and was grinding against him, eyes lidded lips twitched upwards in the slightest of smiles. Then suddenly, something like realization flashed in his eyes and he sucked in a sharp breath.

Laf pointed an accusatory finger at Thomas. “You have been coming to  _ see him!”  _ he cried, face breaking out into an expression of utmost glee. “ _ You,  _ Thomas, have been coming to see a  _ stripper!”  _ He was doubled over now, chest heaving in obnoxious laughter. Thomas felt like falling through the floor. 

Perhaps if he had been quicker on his feet, he could’ve immediately denied it and convinced Laf it was the truth. But his face burned an incriminating crimson, betraying the hard truth and guilt of the fact that he’d been caught red-handed. 

This was Hamilton’s fault. Sure, Hamilton  _ technically  _ had no idea that any of this was going on, but still. He chose to wore those damned thongs and briefs and– one glorious time–  _ heels, _ so really, he started it. 

That bastard. 

Once Laf had calmed down and wiped the residual tears from the corners of his eyes, the guy with him–the one with all the freckles– piped up. 

“Wait– you mean Alex?” He jutted his head in the general direction of Hamilton, though he was no longer on the stage. His set was over, which meant, as Thomas had learned, sooner or later he’d be making his rounds around the club, offering lapdances or sessions in a private room.

“He’s good, right?” The kid continued, “You should get a lapdance. He’s  _ great  _ at those.”

Thomas blinked. “You know him?” 

Freckles laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling just so. “Yeah, he’s my roommate. You want me to bring him over?”

“I–  _ roommate?”  _ Thomas’ breath caught, and all at once he realized just how bad the situation was. Caught here, with Hamilton’s  _ roommate  _ of all people? He had to get out  _ now, _ and pray Laf didn’t give this guy his name–

“Who are you, anyways?”

“Oh, my! I did not introduce the two of you, how impolite of me,” Laf said, jumping in before Thomas could get a word in– he always did that. Why did he always have to do that? Damn him. “Thomas, this is John Laurens. A dear friend of mine, we shared a dorm in our first year. Laurens, this is Thomas Jefferson. We share an apartment.” 

_ Fuck.  _

John’s eyes widened, and recognition dawned on his face. “Wait– Thomas  _ Jefferson?  _ As in–  _ Jefferson– _ holy shit, Alex is gonna  _ flip,  _ he talks about you  _ all the time–” _ His eyes darted excitedly around the club, no doubt searching for Hamilton. 

This wouldn’t stand. There had to be a way out. Thomas grabbed Laurens by the shoulders, gripped him with a wild, pleading desperation. 

“Look, you can  _ not tell Hamilton _ about this,” Thomas said, voice shaky. “I’ll–  _ fuck,  _ I’ll do anything. Just do not say a  _ word  _ to him. _ Please.” _

Thomas stepped back, eyes darting briefly between the two. “I have to go.”

With that, he turned and ran. Out of the corner of his eye, far into his peripheral, he saw a flash of movement that was all too familiar; a body, one that had long since been committed to his memory. Whether it was moving towards him or away from him, or perhaps hadn’t even seen him at all, Thomas didn’t know. He was gone too fast for anything to register beyond a flash of skin.

He burned it into his memory, if somewhat unintentionally. It would be the last time Thomas would see it here, anyways, that much was certain.

–––

Laf came home shortly after, Laurens nowhere in sight. Thankfully. He attempted to bring up the thing with Hamilton– the  _ fiasco,  _ as Thomas had quickly taken to calling it– a grand total of one time before being subjected to the worst death glare Thomas could muster and promptly dropping the subject. 

No further mentions of Hamilton, clubs, or strippers were made after that. 

Thomas didn’t go to Washington’s class come Wednesday, Comparative Politics be damned. Didn’t go Friday, either. He’d take a couple of missing assignments in that class, whatever. No big deal. Anything to avoid Hamilton. 

(He probably would’ve dropped the class if it weren’t for Laf’s incessant nagging by week three of this. Thomas put up a fight, but in the end, Laf won; and with more than a little grumbling Thomas dragged himself to the damned class and promptly avoided any eye contact whatsoever with Hamilton.)

And he hated to say it, but he was getting _lonely._ Hamilton must’ve sensed something was wrong (Thomas refused to even consider the possibility that Laurens had ratted on him) and any attempts to provoke him died out on the first day. That, combined with not seeing him every Saturday, left an odd sort of empty feeling in his chest, a hole that had been previously filled by something downright irritating, but filled nonetheless 

God– he was missing  _ Hamilton.  _ Hamilton, who throughout all of this had no idea what was even going  _ on. _

What had his life come to? 

“You need to eat, mon ami.” 

Thomas was pulled from his self-pity party with a start, and whipped around to see Laf leaning against the doorframe in his bedroom. Damn, how did he not hear the door open? Did he even close it in the first place? 

“I don’t think you have left this room the entire day. You are, what is it?  _ Moping.”  _ Laf crossed his arms and stared at Thomas with some combination of concern, condescension, and accusation that he really didn’t have the brainpower to put a name for at the moment. 

Thomas scoffed. “I’m not  _ moping.  _ Get off my dick.” 

Laf wrinkled his nose. “I’m not on your  _ dick, _ I have a  _ boyfriend.”  _

“That’s not what I– wait, what? Since when do you have a boyfriend?” Thomas blinked, trying to recall a conversation in which Laf mentioned anything of the sort. He came up empty; the whole ‘talking’ thing had gotten rather scarce between the two of them. Mostly his own fault, but whatever. Unimportant. 

“See, this is what happens when you sit in your room and  _ mope  _ all day,” Laf said, lips upturned ever so slightly. “Remember John? You met at–”

“I remember him!” Thomas cut him off before he was able to finish the sentence, before the dreaded  _ event  _ was brought up. “Laurens? Really? When did this happen?”

“A day or so after…” Laf trailed off, waved his hand dismissively and hoped Thomas got the memo. (He did.)

A terrible, horrible thought occurred to him. “You don’t mean–” 

Lafayette seemed to know exactly where Thomas was headed with that and interrupted him with a sigh. “Yes, Thomas, I have become acquainted with Alexander. I mean, I have met him a few times before, but being with John–”

“Gil–”

“–really, mon ami, he’s a great guy, you should get to know him–”

_ “Gil!” _

The words stung, as though even the _suggestion_ of speaking to Hamilton was offensive. Did Laf _honestly think–_  

“I’m serious, Thomas. I know you two are… not on the best of terms, but I really think if you just tried to get along–”

“No. Absolutely not. Conversation over.” Thomas stood and stalked across the room, shoving past Laf on his way out. He faltered, another worrying thought suddenly coming to him. 

“You haven’t– he doesn’t– you haven’t  _ told _ him, right?” Thomas gulped, already afraid of the answer. Laf was fine, he could usually trust Laf, but Laurens? Not so much. And now that the two of them were a  _ thing,  _ and Laf was apparently on amiable terms with Hamilton, there was no telling  _ what _ kind of things have been said about him. 

Laf sighed. “We have told him nothing.”

Thomas nodded, a slight relief giving him some semblance of peace. “Good. Good. Great.” He cleared his throat, looked away from Laf. Anything but eye contact. “I’m, ah. I’m gonna go eat.” 

He wasn’t particularly hungry, but it served as a nice distraction from the increasingly noticeable Hamilton-sized hole in his chest. 

–––

As much as he would have wished it were true, nothing is permanent; and this whole ‘awkwardly-avoid-Hamilton-and-and-all-mentions-of-him’ thing was no different. A full week passed after his not-so-great conversation with Laf before things finally came to a head, as they always did. 

And as usual, it was Laf’s fault. 

Damn him. 

A Saturday afternoon, nothing out of the ordinary. Laf was out with Laurens or something, which left Thomas alone to his own devices for the majority of the day. Just as well, really, he could breathe much better with no other presence cluttering up the apartment. 

(Though, a small part of him wondered whether Laf would ever leave the apartment and not come back, straight up move in with his new beau. He was hardly here anymore anyways; Thomas was living with a ghost in the house. If he thought too hard about it, the silence became deafening.)

The microwave beeped just as the front door swung open, and Thomas opted for retrieving his leftover lasagna rather than greet his roommate. He heard a yell in greeting, followed by what sounded like two pairs of footsteps– Thomas groaned internally; Laf must’ve brought Laurens along with him. So much for the quiet. 

Just as well, anyways. All he had to do was slip down the hall and hide out in his room until Laurens left– and  _ god,  _ Thomas hoped he left, he did  _ not  _ want the roommate of his nemesis sleeping under the same roof as himself. Hotel rooms were fairly cheap, weren’t they? 

Thomas hustled out of the kitchen as fast as he could with a piping hot plate of lasagna in his hands, mentally preparing a possible escape plan for the night when he was jolted by Laf’s sharp voice, calling out his name.

“Thomas!”

He turned, and there stood Laf in the middle of the living room, arms crossed over broad chest with an unreadable expression painting his features. 

“Laf, hey, I was just going to my–” 

“You will not go to your room, mon ami,” Laf interrupted with a pointed look. “There is someone here to see you.”

_ To see me?  _ Who would want to–

Thomas then noticed the figure standing a few feet back, shuffling awkwardly by the doorstep.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Oh, he was going to  _ kill  _ Laf for this. 

He coughed, cleared his throat. Tried to calm the pounding in his chest. 

“Hamilton. What a… pleasure to see you here.”

Hamilton snorted. “Oh, please. Don’t give me that shit. We need to talk.” 

Talk?  _ Talk?  _ He phrased the statement like they were some old married couple, like they’d just had some tussle and needed to work it out before going back to bed. As  _ if.  _

“We really don’t,” Thomas said, loading as much venom into his voice as he could, if to do no more than feign confidence. (In reality, he was shaking in his metaphorical boots. Confrontation has never come easy to him, especially when being confronted by an enemy.  _ Especially  _ when being confronted about something rather humiliating.) “Laf, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here but–” 

“Do not even try, Thomas,” Laf interjected. “You have left too much unresolved. He would like to talk. Be a good host.” And with that, he moved to the door in three short steps and fled the apartment, the door falling shut behind him with a satisfying  _ click. _

“Oh, fuck this, I’m–” Thomas moved to reach for the door, lasagna perched precariously on one palm, but Hamilton’s arm shot out to grab his wrist before he could reach the handle. 

_ “No,” _ Hamilton hissed, eyes narrowing. “We need to  _ talk.” _

Thomas could’ve laughed at this point. Really, what was Hamilton’s  _ deal?  _ Barging into his home uninvited, insisting they  _ talk _ about God-knows-what, has the nerve to stop him from leaving his  _ own apartment.  _ The frantic, fight-or-flight response was quickly dying, replaced with something hotter, something akin to an angry indignance. 

Hamilton trotted over to the living room and plopped down on the couch–  _ make yourself at home, why don’t you, _ Thomas thought briefly– and crossed his arms, staring up at Thomas with a withering gaze. “You’ve been ignoring me.” 

_ That’s all?  _ Thomas scoffed. He set his lasagna on the counter– no point in eating it now, the damned thing had gone cold– and approached Hamilton, lowering himself into the armchair and arranging himself into what he hoped translated as an intimidating position. “And why do you care if I’ve been  _ ignoring _ you?”

Hamilton huffed– pouted, almost. Pouting didn’t fit his face very well, Thomas decided. 

There were  _ much  _ better expressions in his repertoire. Not that Thomas was picturing them. Not at all. 

_ “Because,”  _ Hamilton said, drawing out the S sound, “It’s been  _ boring.  _ Did I do something? You never even  _ talk  _ to me anymore.” 

Thomas blinked. None of this was making sense. If anything, he’d been doing Hamilton a favor by finally pulling himself from their pointless bickerings. And yet, here he was, whining about it on Thomas’ couch like a twelve year old. 

Perhaps Hamilton craved the fight. Perhaps there was some deep-set, sadistic need to agitate, to provoke, and what better target than Thomas? It would explain a lot about Hamilton’s personality, really. 

“Well I’m so, so very sorry if I’ve thrown off some weird little game of yours,” Thomas drawled, “I can’t help it if I’ve decided to seek out the company of more…  _ bearable  _ people. So if you’d kindly see yourself out, that would–”

“Why’d you stop coming to the club, Thomas?” 

Thomas choked on his words. He stared at Hamilton in shock, all the air stolen from his lungs. Hamilton’s face was unreadable, save for a mild, plastered-on sort of curiosity, much too calm to be real. He was hiding, and Thomas wasn’t finding. 

“I–  _ who told–”  _ Thomas spluttered, eyes darting to the door. He could run, he could flee, but what then? There was no use. No escape. Hamilton  _ knew,  _ oh god, he  _ knew– _

“No one told me, dumbass,” Hamilton said, rolling his eyes. He paused. “Well. Laf may have mentioned it a couple times.”

_ Laf. That bastard.  _ Suddenly Thomas was seeing red. “Damn him,” he muttered. “Damn him to  _ hell…”  _

“It’s not his fault, I already knew,” Hamilton said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I mean, I didn’t  _ know  _ know, so I guess Laf kind of confirmed it for me, but. You know.”

Oh God. He was going to die. He was actually going to sink through the floor and die. 

_ You win this round, Hamilton. I’m gonna haunt the shit out of you.  _

“How did you…” Thomas trailed off weakly, the words dying nearly before they began. 

“I’m not  _ stupid,  _ Thomas. I see you with  _ glitter  _ all over you, and then suddenly you’re acting all weird around me, avoiding me and shit. I can put two and two together.” 

Hamilton paused, idly picked dirt out from under his fingernails. Oh, what those  _ hands  _ could do… 

“I never saw you, though. Which means you only came a few times or you were just really good at hiding.” He looked up to meet Thomas’ eyes, and burning stare nearly made Thomas’ breath hitch. He  _ knew  _ that look. Hamilton  _ danced _ with that look. “I always looked for you, though.” 

This was…  _ not  _ where Thomas had expected the conversation to go. He was expecting taunts, mockings, relentless torment over the fact that he’d been so easily brought down, captivated by the one he’d so easily claimed to despise.

Certainly not  _ this, _ whatever it was. 

Thomas racked his brains for something to say, anything to fill the increasingly hot silence. “Why… why are you doing it?” Was all that came out, in a shaky voice so unlike the brazen tone he’d worn only minutes prior. He cursed himself slightly for the question, though it had been one nagging at him for a while. At least he’d finally get an answer. A small victory. 

Hamilton raised a brow. “Do what? Stripping?” 

Thomas gulped, gave a curt nod. Refused to meet Hamilton’s eye. 

“Because it’s easy and I need the money. Gotta get through student loans somehow if I wanna do something with my life. Which I  _ do, _ in case you weren’t sure.” 

Thomas furrowed his brow. “But why…  _ stripping?  _ You’ve got so much potential, you’re  _ brilliant,  _ why…” The words stung as they left his mouth, but whatever connection between his brain and his voice seemed to have short-circuited, and the praise fell out on its own accord. 

Hamilton rolled his eyes. “We aren’t all a bunch of druggies and low-lifes, you know. I’ve got friends there who are training to be doctors. Lawyers. Scientists and shit. But we don’t all come out of the womb obnoxiously rich, like  _ some  _ people.” 

Thomas winced. “Shit. That was insensitive, wasn't it.” 

“Yeah, kinda. Doesn't really bother me. I get it a lot.” 

_ You shouldn’t have to.  _ The thought came into Thomas’ head suddenly, unbidden. He voiced the thought a second later, and Hamilton only shrugged.

“Whatever. Dug my own grave, didn’t I?” 

Thomas chuckled, and with a start, he realized that the two of them were being  _ civil. _ No arguing, no fighting, just  _ talking. _

It was… different. 

The silence settled between them like a thick blanket. Hamilton kept him locked in a sharp stare, and there was a distinct expression that Thomas couldn’t quite place, though it sent chill after burning chill down Thomas’ spine. 

“Why’d you keep coming to see me, Thomas?” Hamilton said wryly, breaking the silence and his passive expression with a slow-growing smirk. “You like how I looked? You like how I  _ moved?” _

Part of him wanted to scoff, to lie and say  _ no, I have standards,  _ but the only thing that left his lips was a breathy,  _ “God yes.” _

And then, suddenly, at a speed previously thought unreachable by humans, Hamilton was off the couch and across the room and  _ on him. _ Thomas was overwhelmed with the rapid onset of sensations; legs on either side of his thighs, arms resting on his shoulder and gripping the back of his chair, hot breath on his lips from Hamilton’s facing being  _ inches away from his own, oh God– _

“If I had known you liked my ass so much,” Hamilton breathed, all low and sultry and throaty, “I think we could’ve along  _ much _ better.” 

Thomas’ breath caught. His heart and mind were racing a mile a minute, trying to comprehend what the  _ hell _ was happening. 

“You– you  _ hate  _ me,” was all he could muster, or at least he thought he said it. It was hard to concentrate on words with a lapful of Hamilton, especially when every breath and every touch pulled up vivid, luscious memories of Hamilton onstage, Hamilton dancing, Hamilton teasing and commanding the attention of the whole damn club. 

“You’re annoying as hell, I’ll give you that,” Hamilton said, then chose that exact moment to press his hips into Thomas’ ever so slightly, grinning when Thomas tried– and failed– to bite back a groan beneath him. “But what’s wrong with having a little fun?” 

Hamilton’s lips grazed Thomas’ own, and that was the moment Thomas’ brain short-circuited.  _ Fuck it,  _ he thought, and tilted his head up to connect their lips. 

_ Kissing Hamilton. Kissing Alexander Hamilton.  _ If his head was on straighter, he’d be slapping himself. How utterly  _ stupid, _ giving into this primitive, carnal desire to touch and kiss and breathe against another body when that body belonged to  _ Alexander Hamilton.  _ If he had been thinking, maybe they wouldn’t have been kissing.

But he wasn’t, and they were.

Hamilton pressed into the kiss with avidity– of course he did, Hamilton either gave 120% or nothing at all– and Thomas blindly reached his hand up to tangle his fingers in Hamilton’s hair, at the nape of his neck. Hamilton squeaked at this– interesting. A tiny part of Thomas filed the information away in the back of his brain. For later use, if he dared think it. 

For a while, Thomas knew nothing but the assault of sensations. Of Hamilton’s lips on his, of sinful sounds of groans and quick, panted breaths, of the tingling realization that this moment was fulfilling pretty much every fantasy Thomas dared to have in the last four months. 

Hamilton pulled away eventually and rested his forehead against Thomas’. Their chests heaved in unison, the adrenaline-fueled thrill of what had just happened settling into both of them. 

_ “That  _ was quite a turn of events,” Thomas breathed eventually, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it. 

“Don’t tell me you hadn’t been expecting it, at some point.” 

“Were  _ you?”  _

Hamilton gave no response, but the pointed silence gave more than enough of an answer. Thomas was seeing stars, at this point. 

He kissed Hamilton again, lazily, because why not? Things like ‘sense’ and ‘dignity’ had long since been cast aside at this point. Hamilton was here, and his for the taking. He’d be a fool if he wasn’t going to  _ take.  _

“You know, I ought to head out at some point,” Hamilton said, drawing back from Thomas. “It’s Saturday.” 

Saturday.  _ Right.  _ In a few hours he’d be at the club, losing himself to the music and dancing for other faceless men and probably forgetting all about this little…  _ whatever. _

Thomas cleared his throat and sat back, but Hamilton wasn’t moving. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. You probably have to… get ready and stuff.” That was a thing, right? Strippers didn’t just walk on the stage and do their thing, right? Or maybe they did. Thomas didn’t know. Thomas was pretty clueless about most of it. All of it, really. 

Hamilton only raised an eyebrow.  _ “Thomas,”  _ he said, much more pointedly this time. “It’s  _ Saturday.”  _ He paused, cocked his head to the side. “You should come.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

“And don’t hide from me this time, will you?” 

Despite himself, Thomas laughed, and Hamilton did the same. Light chuckling turned into full on cackling, and it was less at Hamilton’s quip and more at the absolute inanity of the whole situation. Where they were now, compared to where they were only a few months prior… it made no sense. 

Then again, things had stopped making sense the moment Thomas agreed to let Laf take him to that club.

“Wouldn’t miss it, darlin’,” Thomas said, a sudden strike of boldness compelling him to slip the pet name in. A part of him worried if that was taking it too far, but Hamilton only grinned. 

“You better give me an obnoxious amount of tips,” Hamilton said, “You know, to make up for lost time and all that.” He finally kicked his legs out from where they were planted on either side of Thomas and stood, Thomas following suit. 

Thomas leaned close, grazed the skin just below Hamilton’s ear with his teeth. “I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll be waiting.” 

And just like that, Alexander was out of the apartment, shoes kicked on and jacket snagged from the coat rack in a flash, leaving Thomas alone in the apartment.

He collapsed back into the armchair and took a breath, trying to process everything that had just happened. It was a lot.

Thomas made a mental note to write Laf an apology letter, for all the times he had cursed him. 

**Author's Note:**

> wheee that was fun. maybe ill do a sequel someday, i have a few ideas swirling around if yall are interested, who knows. 
> 
> leave a comment/kudos, they make my day <3
> 
> come scream at me on my [tumblr!!!](http://www.roseclipping.tumblr.com) i love hearing from you guys and talking about my fics/hamilton in general, so come check me out. i promise im cool.
> 
> thank you so much for reading x


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